


Maybe There's A Universe

by Pixie (magnetgirl)



Category: Star Trek: Discovery
Genre: Alternate Universe, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Party, Starfleet Academy, Wakes & Funerals
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-20
Updated: 2018-02-20
Packaged: 2019-01-20 09:11:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 6,644
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12429633
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/magnetgirl/pseuds/Pixie
Summary: when Gabriel Lorca met Katrina Cornwellan exploration of meetings across various timelines (prompts welcome!)





	1. Tactical

Most of her classes are populated by peers. Medical researchers and physicians who’ve come to the Academy out of Starfleet Medical or a sister institution. Medics can be assigned to a post straight out of Med, but if they want to be officers they have to attend the Academy proper. Katrina is ambitious and she likes school so she chose the latter. And mostly it’s just a few extra years of study with her friends and professors plus time to refine her research.

But tactical training has a much broader audience and she finds herself surrounded by jocks.

"Hi." 

He's tall and pretty and she kind of wants to punch his face. It's the grin. He'd be perfectly cast as the Big Bad Wolf devouring Red Riding Hood's virginity. Katrina presses the wholly inappropriate, and culturally wrong -- Erich Fromm's psychoanalysis of the folktale went out of favor centuries ago -- thought out of her head and forces herself to smile (not grin).

"Hi." 

He extends a hand. "Cadet Gabriel Lorca."

"Katrina Cornwell." She shakes his hand. A firm grip. His entire being exudes confidence.

"Pleased to meet you, Ms. Cornwell." 

"Doctor," she corrects, automatically.

He raises an eyebrow. "Doctor?" 

She nods.

"Impressive."

There's something in his eyes. A gleam. She doesn't trust it. "Are you making fun of me?"

"Not at all. I'm impressed." She frowns. "This is an elective course for medical, right?" She nods. "So you elected."

Katrina squares her shoulders. "I want to be in the chain of command."

He whistles. "Am I allowed to be impressed by that?"

She's saved from scrambling to find a clever answer by the arrival of the instructor. Gabriel snaps to attention and she follows suit.

"At ease, cadets." 

Gabriel's right hand brushes her left as they move to clasp their hands behind their backs. She glances his way, but he's staring straight ahead. There's no hint of the wolf now.

Their instructor addresses the class. "For the first six weeks you will be working in pairs."

Katrina's face remains passive but inwardly she groans. She likes working alone, and doesn't mind small groups or larger teams. But working in a pair requires a kind of trust that doesn't come naturally to her.

"Many of my peers assign partners based on your performances in the introductory course and entry evaluations. That's how it often is in the Fleet proper, and I don't argue with the practice." He stops pacing and crosses his arms. "However, instinct is the key to success -- or failure -- in this class. I want you to choose your own partner. You have three minutes."

Katrina feels his eyes on her. She could move away, into the crowd, find someone more practical and less dangerous. Someone safe. Safety is a reasonable desire in tactical training. But she doesn't move away. She raises her eyes to his, gleaming once more, the wolf trapped in their depths, yearning for release.

He's extended his hand again. "Partners?"

Her heartbeat is racing. This is a terrible idea.

She takes his hand.


	2. Quincy

"Wow."

Katrina gasps at the unfamiliar voice breaking her concentration. Her finger slips and the data starts to fly by the screen. "No!" she screeches. "Computer, stop! Halt!" The data stream pauses. "Mark last entry." The screen flashes.

"Marked," reports the computer. Katrina lets out the breath she wasn't fully aware she was holding, and turns to glare at the intruder.

A cadet. Tall, young, what her mother would call puckish. Handsome -- and he knows it. Starfleet's finest no doubt. Conn, Command, Security -- not science or he wouldn't have barged into her lab uninvited and unannounced.

"May I help you?" she asks, making no effort to hide her annoyance.

"What's that?" He points to the screen.

"A brain scan."

"Whose brain?"

She purses her lips. "An Andorian.

He lights up. "Ah!" He moves closer to peer at the scan. "Where are the…" He mimics two antenna on his head. Katrina rolls her eyes.

"The antenna are not part of the brain."

He grins. "Why are you studying Andorian brains?" 

"Dr. Quincy is studying the effects of deep space travel on the nervous system." She nods to the paused data stream. "I'm collating the data, and _you_ nearly lost me half a day's work."

He peers at the data, reads a few lines. "Can't the computer collate by itself?"

"I need to tell it where to look," she argues.

He flashes a smile. It's annoyingly charming. "So, you're a neurologist?"

"Dr. Quincy is a xenoneurobiologist," she corrects. "I'm a psychiatrist."

He looks surprised. And curious. "Tell me something about myself."

"That's not how it works."

"Just one thing."

She crosses her arms. "You don't like being told no."

"Very true." He extends a hand. "I'm Gabriel. Lorca."

She gives his hand a perfunctory shake. "Dr. Cornwell."

He raises an eyebrow. "Doctor...?"

"Ensign if you prefer."

Gabriel licks his lips. "I do. It suits you." She frowns. "What should I study for my science rotation Ensign Cornwell?"

"What are you interested in?"

He looks at her with hungry eyes, the answer clearly ‘you’. But he leaves it unspoken.

He shrugs. "I guess I’ll do astrophysics."

As silence grows, Katrina nods with some awkwardness. Gabriel points to the brain scan. "So, is it dangerous? Does traveling in space mess up your brain?" 

She bites her lip. "Results are inconclusive."

"What do you think?"

She shakes her head. "I intend to find out."

He grins. "See you out there, Ensign Cornwell." He gives her a little half salute and turns to leave.

"Katrina," she calls, when he's reached the door. He spins to meet her gaze, and repeat the word, her name, as if it is a magic spell.

" _Katrina_."


	3. Jemison

"Ensign Lorca, please have a seat."

She walks crisply across the room to sit at her desk. He drops into the chair opposite.

"I'm Dr. Cornwell, thank you for coming."

"I was ordered."

"Standard protocol," she counters. He nods. "Just let me know when you're ready to begin."

Gabriel's eyes narrow. "You're pretty," he says, looking for a rise.

"Thank you," she responds, perfunctory and non-plussed.

He grins, and leans back into the chair. "Go ahead."

Katrina flicks a switch on the console. "Computer, record."

"Working."

"Standard psychological evaluation, Ensign Gabriel Lorca, conducted by Katrina Cornwell. Mark stardate."

"Marked."

Katrina nods and turns her attention to the ensign. "How old are you, Mr. Lorca?"

"Twenty-three. How old are you?"

"It's not my evaluation, sir."

"I'm curious."

She purses her lips. "Twenty-eight." He nods thanks. "And this is your first assignment?"

"Yes."

She hits a button. "Why did you join Starfleet?"

"Why did you?"

She straightens in her seat. "This will go quicker if you simply answer the questions, Ensign. Why did you join Starfleet?"

"Why does anyone?" She raises an eyebrow. He leans forward, clasps his hands on the desk. "I want to see what's out there."

"What do you expect to find?"

He makes an exasperated face. "I don't know, that's why I want to go."

"Okay. What would you do if you encountered a hostile alien?"

"Whatever my commanding officer told me to do."

She makes a note. "And if you were alone?"

"It depends." Annoyance is creeping into his voice and manner.

"On what?"

He leans even closer. "On the specifics of your hypothetical."

She cocks her head. "While surveying a newly discovered planetoid alone you encounter an unknown alien lifeform that makes threatening gestures towards you. What do you do?"

Gabriel takes a deep breath. "The optimum option is retreat, after which I report my position to command, and request assistance, set my phaser to stun and assess the situation so I may make a full report. If retreat is not possible I should attempt to open communication."

"And if the alien attacks you?"

"The use of force is only authorized for self-defense."

She makes another note.

"How am I doing?"

She shrugs. He's parroting the handbook, but that’s all Starfleet really wants in these evals. "You clearly have a strong grasp on established protocol."

He smirks.

"There are many known cultures who react very differently to various stimuli in comparison to humans. How would you assess _hostility_ in an unknown alien?"

Lorca frowns. "Dr. Cornwell," he answers in a low voice, "I did not join Starfleet to shoot things and I hope I never have to."

He's angry, she realizes, curiously, intensely angry.

"But if an unknown alien -- or a known alien, or a human -- overtly and explicitly threatens me," he pauses to meet Katrina's eyes, "or _you_ , I will not hesitate."

The moment lingers as they lock eyes. Something stirs deep within her body. She's disturbed to discover more desire than fear. She straightens in her chair and turns abruptly to the console. "Ensign Lorca is fit for duty but recommend additional assessment in six months." She flicks the computer off.

"Why?" he asks, with a mix of accusation and… hurt.

"You're carrying a lot of anger and I want to be certain you're dealing with it in a healthy way."

His eyes narrow, but his shoulders relax as he takes this in. He is perhaps more self-aware than she first assumed.

"Are we done?"

She nods. "I'll append your record and inform the CMO. Dismissed."

He holds her gaze a moment longer before turning away and walking to the door. As he reaches it, she calls out.

"Oh, and Mr. Lorca?" He looks over. "I can take care of myself."

A wide grin crosses his face, transforming it into something beautiful, and dangerous.

"Good to know."


	4. Tim

"I'm sorry for your loss."

"Thank you," she answers, in a tired voice with little inflection. She's said it over a hundred times just this morning.

"I'm Gabriel. Lorca. I was Tim's roommate on the Jemison."

She blinks. Focuses on the young man in front of her. "Oh. Of course. He mentioned you." Though, right this second, she couldn't bring to mind a single thing he'd said. On a clinical level, she understands she is grieving, and her memories are stalled because her brain wants to protect her. On an emotional level, she doesn't care about any of that, and is irrationally afraid she's already forgetting her little brother, the best person she'll ever know. She blinks again, and wishes she could cry. But all she feels is empty.

"You're not what I expected. From how he spoke of you."

She tries again to focus on the roommate. Lorca. She's fuzzy on the details with regards to Tim, but even so, he's exactly what she'd expect. Quintessential Starfleet, dress uniform pressed and polished, practically at attention -- though there's something about the way he plants his feet. Grounded, especially here, in the soil. Even she feels weird after years of artificial gravity, but Lorca looks at home.

"What did he say?"

Gabriel cocks his head. "You're a doctor, and a hard ass, and his best friend." She makes a noise that imitates laughter, though neither of them are fooled. "And you practically raised him after your mother died."

She stares, stricken. Tim had never said it to her. Not anything like it. Others had, but she didn't listen. The way she sees it, she'd never done anything more than what anyone would do in her situation. She didn't have a choice, _somebody_ had to take care of him.

And anyway, she failed. Here she is at another funeral. Tim had run headlong into danger, just like he always did, and she wasn't there to shield him.

She's blinking furiously and she tastes bile in her throat. Gabriel takes her hand and presses gently on the palm.

"Can I get you something?" he offers. "Water? Bourbon?"

She glances up, sees his concerned expression. Why can't she remember what Tim said? He liked him, but he was… something. Maybe driven? Ambitious?

"How am I different?" At his frown she clarifies in a murmur, "Than what you thought."

He chuckles and it's oddly comforting. He's still holding her hand. "Well, I expected a governess. You're hot."

Katrina stares. Maybe Tim meant to call him audacious. But then Tim would laugh. She starts to shake, and she can't stop. Gabriel tugs on her hand, draws her closer to him and away from the crowd. When they've reached a quiet corner, he pulls her into a tight embrace and she starts to sob.

She sheds all the tears she'd pent up for weeks, since she'd received word of the incident, and rushed to the nearest transport only to arrive two hours too late. She doesn't know how long she cries, held tight in a stranger's arms. He doesn't shush her, or pass on any platitudes. He doesn't speak at all. Just stands, holding the world away, creating a safe space for her to cry. 

When her tears are spent she pulls away. Gabriel drops his hands and waits. Katrina takes a deep, refreshing, breath.

"I'm sorry."

He shakes his head. " _I'm_ sorry. I didn't…" He looks rueful. "I meant to make you laugh."

She pulls her lips in over her teeth. I" needed this more."

He nods understanding. She glances to the thinning crowd of mourners.

"I'll take that bourbon now," she suggests, turning back. He grins.

"You got it."


	5. Noah

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please be aware, this chapter includes references to suicide.

She hesitates before pressing the door chime. Shuffles back and forth on her heels, clutching the book in her hands. But she owes it to Noah. And Gabriel. And herself. She pushes the button. 

After a few (long, slightly agonizing) minutes the door slides open to reveal the young man she’s come to see. He’s still dressed up for the funeral, though the jacket of his dress uniform is unzipped and his shoes are off. He’d looked rigid at the ceremony, emotions strictly and purposefully contained. Here it is different. His hair falls haphazardly across his forehead, the dark circles under his eyes are oddly menacing in the low artificial light. Tall and aloof replaced by a kind of hulking darkness.

"Yes?" His voice is as harsh as the rest of him. 

"Hello. I…" She thrusts out a hand. "I'm Katrina Cornwell. I knew your brother." She pauses, uncertain where to begin. He ignores her hand.

"The funeral was this morning."

"I know, I was… I was there, but I…" She lowers the hand he's clearly not going to take. "May I come in?"

His eyes move slowly over her body, taking her measure. It feels uncomfortable, but then it already was. Finally, he steps to the side and waves her in.

The room is no lighter than the hall. Generically Starfleet, if a little messy. An open bottle of something is on the table, and two glasses. One nearing empty and one full. He follows her gaze and explains, "That one's for Noah."

She nods and takes a seat, hands nervously stroking the book on her lap.

He sits across from her. "So. You knew my brother."

She nods again. "We went to school together and," she takes a breath, "kept up over the years. In the last," she shrugs, "six months or so, we -- we were -- close."

Her eyes find his. She doesn't elaborate and he doesn't ask.

She lifts the book. "We were on leave, a weekend, five weeks ago and he found this at a bazaar. It was meant for you. For your birthday." She holds the book out towards him.

Gabriel reaches slowly to take the book from her outstretched hand. He turns it over, once, and again, haltingly strokes the spine before opening the cover to read the title.

"Milton?"

She nods and takes a deep breath. "In retrospect," she admits quietly, "it gains meaning." Her voice trembles. Noah had always been intense and she’d encouraged him to seek help more than once over the years. But this time…. She'd missed every warning sign. "I'm sorry."

He settles back into his chair with a sigh. "The last time I spoke with Noah, he was happy. Happier than I'd seen him in years. I wondered why." He glances up to her. "It was you."

Katrina swallows. It wasn’t her. She knows too much to believe that. The sudden, unexpected switch from being very sad to being very calm, or appearing to be happy, is a classic sign of suicidal ideation. She'd wanted to believe it was her, too, that's how she missed it. But Gabriel was in the wrong mental place to hear that truth, and she was in the worst mental space to argue it. She feels a tear slip down her cheek.

Gabriel crouches forward, hand reaching -- hesitating just before contact. Startled, her eyes flick to his. His fingers brush gently across her skin. After a moment they both draw back.

Gabriel picks up the book and flips a few pages. "Do you believe in Hell, Ms. Cornwell?"

A long, oddly comfortable silence passes. "I don’t know what I believe."

He nods with a small, sad smile. "Thank you. For the book."

She stands, taking it as a dismissal, if a kind one. "If you ever want to talk," she offers. He nods again and she turns to leave. He watches, silent and still, until she reaches the door.

"Katrina…"

She turns, expression questioning, eyes vulnerable. The words are caught in his throat. She flashes a tired, but comforting, and genuine, smile.

"When you're ready."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shout out to [carlynroth](http://archiveofourown.org/users/carlynroth/pseuds/carlynroth) for suggesting one or the other had a sibling who died tragically.


	6. Shaft

"Hello?"

She doesn't know how long it's been when she hears the call. Feels like hours, but could just as easily have been minutes. Or days. The air is thin and she's lost a lot of blood; it's a wonder she's conscious at all.

"Here!" she answers, and musters the strength to raise up on her elbows to spy her savior. 

His uniform indicates Starfleet -- copper, she thinks, so operations, or security, or, best case scenario, engineering. But he's as covered in dust and grime as she is, and in the hazy light he more resembles an angel of death than rescue. 

Upon reaching her side, his eyes rake over her body to assess the damage, and briefly flash with a fear that indicates either he's younger than she thought, or she looks even worse than she feels. 

"You're medical," he says, not quite a question, but she nods to confirm. "Tell me what to do."

She holds out a hand. "Help me take this jacket off." He frowns, but crouches to do as she says. She bites her lip against the pain as he maneuvers her arms out of the jacket. "Good. Rip it into strips. Bandages," she clarifies at his glance. He nods and gets to it. "How well do you know this place?"

"Been here a month. Ship was assigned to transport the ambassador and negotiation's are so tense we were ordered to stick around." He meets her eyes. "We were supposed to prevent this."

She grits her teeth. "Hold off your contrition until we're safe, soldier."

"Yes, ma'am," he responds after a beat, and holds up the improvised bandages. 

"There's a gash on my right leg. Tie one tightly right above it, then another every two or three inches."

"Over your uniform?"

She nods. "It's most important to stop the bleeding. I'll worry about infection when we get to medical." He starts to gently slide the bandages under her leg. It tingles, a reassurance the pain in her back doesn't indicate a broken spine. "Is there a way out?"

"A ramp," he explains. "But it's a hike, even to where we might get a signal out." He ties the first bandage and starts to pull it tightly, causing her to screech as the pain shoots through her body. She shakes her head at his wide eyed reaction. 

"Keep going," she orders. The second knot is no less painful, but she's expecting it and her cry is tempered. Her rescuer is pale, but determined, and completes his task quickly. 

"Okay," she says when her leg is bandaged, and he's helped her into a sitting position. "Good news, I'm not paralyzed. Bad news, I don't think I can walk." Just moving the leg causes her to grunt in pain. Putting even partial weight on it would likely cause her to black out. 

"I'll carry you," he suggests. 

She shakes her head. "It'll slow you down. And this air's getting worse. You should go. Bring back help."

"I'm not leaving you."

"It's the smart choice," she argues. A storm of emotions cross through his eyes. "Starfleet is risk assessment. You have a better chance alone. And I have a better chance if you leave right now."

Haunted eyes still on her, he stands and starts to turn -- but stops. "No," he declares and moves to scoop her into his arms. 

"Put me down," she commands, but he ignores her and starts to move through the rubble back the way he'd come. "I outrank you and I am giving you a direct order to leave me behind and get help."

"Respectfully, ma'am, I don't care."

"I'll write you up for this," she hisses through her teeth, the pain almost unbearable when his weaving through the debris jostles her. 

"You can only do that if you survive," he answers, glancing down. "Now, stop arguing. We need to conserve air and energy."

Resigned, Katrina snakes her arms around his shoulders and pulls up to better spread her weight. As she curls her head into his chest, his heartbeat and breathing create a kind of chorus. She focuses on bringing her own into sync, and decides it's not the worst way to die. And if she does, she'll have the satisfaction of being right. 

* * *

She wakes to bright light. As her eyes adjust she recognizes the layout as Sickbay in one of the freighter class ships. Her skin is clean, her uniform has been replaced with a medical smock, and the pain has receded. He got them out.

"Good, you're awake." Katrina blinks as a nurse moves to check the readings on the screen behind her bed. "Maybe Ensign Lorca will take a shower, now."

"Ensign…?" Katrina follows the nurse's gesture to a chair beside her bed, the young man sprawled in it asleep. 

"He's fine, mostly exhaustion. But he refused to leave your side." The nurse smiles, clearly charmed by the gesture. "Your leg was reset and healed. There was an infection, you were in shock, and the air'd become toxic. We worried you'd been under too long but your fever broke this morning, and now you've regained consciousness, I think we're out of the woods." 

She presses a hypospray into Katrina's shoulder. "For the pain," she explains and draws back. "We'll do a neurological work up in a few days, but all your scans look good."

"Thank you."

The nurse nods. "Get some rest. You're off duty at least a week." She presses a button on the medical display and moves off to her next patient. 

Katrina turns to look at the ensign. Lorca. His features are softer asleep, and in the light. As if in response to her gaze, his eyes flutter open and he sits up, relief spilling across his face. 

"Katrina."

She raises an eyebrow. "I didn't know we were on a first name basis. I don't even know yours."

He straightens. "Gabriel, ma'am."

Her eyes crinkle. An angel after all. "Thank you, Gabriel." She extends a hand; he clasps it in both of his. 

"You're welcome."

"It was stupid, and I'm still going to write you up," she continues, "but thank you."

He nods acceptance, his eyes crinkling, too. "We all do what we have to do."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter's situation was suggested by [Iha](http://archiveofourown.org/users/lha/pseuds/lha) and the next one is a variation - thank you!


	7. Toxin

"I need a doctor!"

Katrina looks over. The young lieutenant was pale and panting, with a wet brow and wild eyes. She waves to a nurse she'll take it and steers him to a biobed. "What's going on?"

"I can't breathe." He pulls at the neck of his uniform, as if it's constricting airflow. "Can't... And I'm ... dizzy."

She presses his wrist with her fingers. His heart is racing. Could be a panic attack, but he's sweating and it seems more like an allergic reaction. "Did you ingest anything strange?"

"One of the natives offered me berries."

"And you ate them?!" She stares, incredulous.

"Of course not!" he slaps her hand away, as if uncomfortable. "I touched them."

"Okay." She peers in his eyes, bloodshot, annoyance clear, but behind it -- fear. Gently she presses his arm. The skin is hot, and slow to react. "Are you allergic to any medications?"

"No," he answers, gruff and weary, his breathing very labored. 

She grabs a hypospray, punches in a formula for adrenaline and a strong anti-histamine and waits for it to fill. Just a few seconds, but it feels like forever. She's not used to emergency medicine. Her work is incredibly slow paced the great majority of the time. The hypospray dings, she removes it from the dock and presses it into his neck. Immediately his breathing improves and they both relax.

"I need you to go for a walk with me," she tells him, helping him down from the table and handing him a water. "It's important for you to keep moving for -- about thirty minutes at least." He frowns as he downs the water. "Nothing strenuous, but not knowing exactly what the toxin is, I had to give you a pretty powerful medication." He nods and sets down the empty cup. "Do you think you can point out the berries?"

"Yes," he says in a way that makes her think he doesn't often say no to a challenge. 

"Good." She touches her fingers to his wrist again. Heartbeat nearly normal and the unnatural heat has faded. "We can try to save anyone else from going through this." She looks up to find him watching with an intensity that startles her. She drops his hand and turns quickly to hide her flushed cheeks. 

Katrina replaces the hypospray in its dock and grabs a tricorder and two collection sets from inventory. She drops it all into a shoulder bag and returns to her patient. 

"Ready, Lieutenant?"

"Lorca." He offers a hand. "Gabriel Lorca."

She shakes. "Katrina Cornwell."

* * *

"A psychiatrist?" 

She nods. "I'm supposed to be observing negotiations, but they're barely happening and they needed help in the clinic." She shrugs. "I like to stay busy."

He nods understanding. "Well, I benefited."

"I'm sure any of the physicians could have helped you."

"Maybe," he concedes, pausing to take in the view. "But you did." His eyes are intense again, and she's struggling not to blush. "There," he says. 

"What?"

He points behind her. "The berries. There."

She turns and crouches. They look innocuous enough, vaguely like crabapples, clustered in small bunches. She pulls a kit out of the bag, snaps a second skin over her hands and carefully cuts a branch. Gabriel squats beside her as she slips the branch into a container and snaps on her tricorder. Some of the readings are familiar, and others would probably be even more so to someone trained in botany or toxins. She's not certain what would be the most useful so she tries to record everything. 

"Am I inoculated now?"

Katrina looks up. "The medication is still in your system, but it's not an antidote or vaccination. I just treated your symptoms." She doesn't like how close he is to the plant. "Don't risk it," she cautions.

"What about you?"

"I'm not touching it either. Until we know what you reacted to, we won't know if I’d be affected in the same way." He nods. She passes him the tricorder. "Hold this, I want to get some roots."

He takes the machine out of her hand and she digs below the stem to try and gather what she needs. The root is stubborn and she struggles to pull it up. Frowning, Gabriel closes his hands over hers to help. "No, don’t!" She drops the plant and pulls her hands away, worried about the berry residue stuck to her dermaskin. Startled, he falls back -- directly into the berry patch. Her eyes grow wide. 

Katrina scrambles for a communicator. The clinic won’t be equipped, so she opens a channel to the ship in orbit. "Cornwell to..." She flashes Gabriel a panicked glance.

"Jemison," he gasps.

"Jemison. I have a medical emergency--"

The communicator squawks, communications had been dicey all week. "...Repeat?"

"This is Katrina Cornwell with Starfleet medical, Lieutenant Lorca needs immediate--"

The box squawks again, then goes silent. Katrina swears and turns back to her companion. He's successfully crawled out of the berries, but collapsed. 

"Look at me." She rips the second skin off her hands and thrusts them away, before cupping his face in her hands. "Stay with me. Okay? Focus on me and breathe."

Her heads spins as he tries to comply. She has another dose of the anti-allergen, but it could flood his system and throw him into shock or worse. But if the toxin goes unchecked it could kill him. 

"Lieutenant. Gabriel." His eyes meet hers. "I don't know how your body will react to another treatment. It could…"

"Do it," he croaks. 

"It could kill you."

"Already… mmm," he spits out, starting to convulse. Katrina nods and removes the hypospray from the bag. With a quick, silent, prayer she presses it into his neck. She drops the hypo and replaces her hands on his cheeks. 

"Stay with me," she says again. He lifts his eyes to meet hers. 

"You're beautiful," he murmurs.

His eyes roll back and he's not breathing. "Gabriel! Gabriel!" As she leans down to check his airway and start resuscitation the communicator chirps. Katrina grabs the device, shouting orders. "Two to beam up. Medical emergency. Medical emergency!"

* * *

She wakes to his fingers in her hair. A comfort followed by chagrin when she realizes she'd fallen asleep with her head on his bed -- and body. She leaps back, color flowing into her cheeks. He only smiles.

"I'm sorry I scared you," he tells her, and she's not entirely sure if he means just now, or by nearly dying, or when he'd tried to help her with the plant. She decides it doesn't matter and shakes her head."Doc said I'll be fine."

She nods, mutely. 

"I was only mostly dead," he chuckles. 

She pales. 

"Hey, I'm just teasing." He reaches for her hand. "You saved my life. Twice."

"I nearly killed you twice."

He glances away a moment, into the busy sickbay. Thinks about the stalled negotiations, the weeks of boring patrol duty, the little girl who'd offered him her treat. He looks back to find the doctor still watching him, her dark hair framing a beautiful face marred by guilt and a vulnerability he expects she prefers to hide. 

"Sometimes that's what you have to do."


	8. Party

As parties go, it's a good one. The library is older than the Academy, and while the central corridor is outfitted like a starship, it is surrounded by wood paneling and stacks of actual physical books, if behind temperature and moisture controlled shielding. It sounded stuffy when he read the invite but it's surprisingly appealing in reality. There's a bar, live music, a crowded dance floor, bright lights for showing off, and dark corners to get lost in. Hundreds of cadets are milling about, but only two catch his eye. Really just one.

He recognizes her debate partner -- it is clearly a debate -- but he's not seen her before, not that he recalls. She's plenty attractive, in a little black dress clinging to a lithe body. She smiles with her teeth and he's charmed by a stray hair falling into her eyes no matter how many times she brushes it back. But pretty as she is, it's not what draws his attention. Whatever she's arguing, she's fully committed to it, and all lit up. He can see the fire in her eyes from across the room. He might even be able to feel it.

"See something you like?"

Philippa appears out of nowhere, as is her habit, with two glasses of something green.

"Hmm?"

" _Hmmmm_?" she parrots with twinkling eyes and hands him one of the drinks.

He rolls his eyes over the glass as he accepts it and takes a sip. And frowns. "What is this?"

"A Luminaran Moon Pool. From Trill. Barkeep says it tastes like champagne."

"It tastes like dirt." He sets the drink aside and returns his attention to the firecracker brunette. Philippa follows his eyes.

"She _is_ very pretty," she agrees with his unspoken thought.

His eyes crinkle, not quite frowning, but -- it's more than that. He crosses his arms. "They haven't stopped all night."

"You've been watching her all night?"

"No," he blusters, "I..." She raises an eyebrow. He sighs. "Look," he gestures towards the couple with his chin, "that's Cadet Barton."

"On the debate team."

He nods. "Right. But I think she's winning."

Philippa cocks her head. "Winning the party?"

He ignores it. "Whatever they've been talking about for the past hour, he's -- _annoyed._  Look, he can’t even stand still."

As they watch, Barton cuts the air with his hand and hits one of the shelf-shields, causing it to throw a handful of sparks into the air. The woman doesn't blink, just brushes her hair back out of her eyes again.

Gabriel points, argument made. "And I've seen him stare down a Vulcan."

"Mmhm." She smiles over her glass. "Want an introduction?"

He shoots her a look. "You know her?"

"She's in my Ethics class." She laughs at his expression. "I _told you_  to take Ethics."

Across the room, Barton storms away, clearly giving up.

Pippa grins. "Come on, now's your chance." She starts walking toward her classmate, newly alone, but her companion hangs back. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing's wrong."

Her eyes narrow, curious. "I've never seen you shy about a girl, Gabe."

"I'm not shy, Pippa, I'm pacing myself." She purses her lips in disbelief. "Fine." They make their way swiftly across the room.

"Katrina," Philippa calls when they are a few paces away. The young woman turns, flashing a toothy grin.

"Philippa, hi!" She waves them over.

"This is Gabriel," Philippa introduces.

"Lorca," he adds, extending a hand.

"Katrina Cornwell."

As she reaches for his hand, Pippa lightly flicks the nearby shelf-shield, creating sparks the way Cadet Barton had, as they shake. Both glance toward her, Katrina scrunching her nose in curiosity, Gabriel pursing his lips in exasperation. Pippa shrugs, smiling. They drop hands.

"I'll get us a round," Philippa murmurs. 

"Something from Earth," Gabriel requests. 

"Some explorer you are," she teases as she moves off with a wave. 

Gabriel glances at Katrina, her hair once again shading her eyes.

"Enjoying the party?"

"There's a party?" At Gabriel’s confused glance, she laughs. "Sorry." She shrugs and brushes the stray hair back from her face. "I was speaking with Troy for what felt like a day."

He nods. "It looked intense."

Something like chagrin pulls at her lips, but her eyes sparkle in the low light. "He's very defensive about the Prime Directive," she explains in a low voice.

Gabriel's eyes flicker in some surprise. "You're against the Prime Directive?"

"Of course not," she answers, laughing again. "But we should follow it for the right reasons."

"What are the right reasons?"

Katrina bites her lip. "Gabriel?" she asks, verifying his name. He nods. "I already talked about it for more than an hour." Her hair falls back across her eye as she looks up to meet his. "Can we do something else?"

Something in the way she says it promises there will be another opportunity to hear her thoughts on the subject. Promises many opportunities. He reaches a hand to brush the stray lock back over her ear.

"Whatever you like."

She raises her chin, their faces just inches apart. "Dance with me."

With a wolfish grin he takes her hand and draws her into the crowd and into his arms.  Music fills the room, the lights pulsing in time. 

Philippa watches from the stacks, quietly sipping another Luminaran Moon Pool. Their bodies fit together perfectly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is based on a prompt from [caressyouintodarkness](http://caressyouintodarkness.tumblr.com/), with an attempt to incorporate some of her trio headcanons.


	9. Beacon

"Cadet Lorca?"

Gabriel looks up from his perch on the stone wall outside the library complex. He prefers to study outdoors, prefers to do most things outdoors, and it was especially too nice to stay inside this afternoon. Particularly if the view includes the pretty brunette from his diplomacy class.

"Cadet Lorca...?" she repeats and he hopes he wasn't staring. He's not used to people approaching him, definitely not those in the attractive popular crowd. It's not that he's a loner per se. Just. Not a joiner.

He nods, and with a hopefully not too awkward smile, sets his tricorder aside as she takes a seat beside him.

"I was really impressed with your presentation in Galactic Politics. You made a great argument."

He's not surprised she paid attention -- he's literally never seen anyone so engaged in their education -- but he certainly didn't expect her, or anyone, to remark on it.

"...Thank you."

Soft eyes peer at him in the bright sunlight. "You look confused."

Gabriel shrugs, expression self-conscious. "I lost the debate."

She shakes her head. "You won the debate," she asserts, "you just lost the vote."

An understatement, he thinks, only three of his classmates cast a vote in his favor. Though, based on this encounter, she could be one of them. Which is a nice thought.

"I lost the vote because I didn't convince anyone during the debate," he argues, with a vague idea she might confirm he convinced _her_.

Instead she waves a dismissive hand. "It was a popularity contest."

Gabriel feels a knot twist in his stomach. "I think I'm insulted."

"Popularity is overrated." Dark hair frames bright eyes as she leans closer to brush his hand in a gesture of reassurance.

"I wouldn't know," he murmurs. Easy to say when you're intelligent, well-connected, and beautiful. But he knows she means to be kind.

"Listen." She straightens and flashes a wide grin. "I work with a group called Beacon that visits smaller colonies and member worlds to recruit underrepresented populations for the Academy."

She pauses. He purses his lips.

"That's … noble."

This receives an eye roll, but what was he supposed to say? Why is she telling him this? Why is she talking to him?

"We're going out week after next," she explains, "and I want you to join my team."

Gabriel blinks.

"You... What?"

"It's eight days, ten cities, light cruiser. You get a quarter credit towards the community service requirement -- and you could change someone's life."

 _What?_ He opens his mouth but can't quite get his words working. She's inviting him on a ….Starfleet... service... road trip... ?

He glances back to find her waiting expectantly, toothy grin and bright eyes dazzling, and he says the first thing that comes to mind.

"Do I get my own cabin?"

She laughs, shakes her head. "Bunk beds."

He feels his stomach twist again, but it is an entirely different sensation and probably, definitely, wholly inappropriate. He takes a deep breath and meets her eyes directly.

"Why me?"

"I like you," she answers, easily, and his insides flutter again. "I think these kids would really respond to you."

He has absolutely no idea what she could possibly mean by that, nor any concept of how he should feel about it. But he knows he'll regret it if he doesn't take the chance to find out.

"...Yes." He nods, once, in a likely wasted attempt at appearing confident. "I'll do it."

"Great." She mirrors his nod, her own confidence easy. "We're having a meeting tomorrow. I'll send you all the information."

He nods. She stands and extends a hand.

"I look forward to working with you, Cadet Lorca."

He stands, too, shakes, and gives her a shy smile. "Gabriel."

Her answering grin is as bright as the sun. "Katrina."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter written in response to [BlackQat](http://archiveofourown.org/users/BlackQat/pseuds/BlackQat)'s comment " _I wonder if Lorca was always that confident!_ ". I kind of like shy Lorca <3

**Author's Note:**

> Any further ideas welcome!


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